


put on your soundtrack to disaster

by WanderingCreep



Series: put on your soundtrack to disaster [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M, Snipers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingCreep/pseuds/WanderingCreep
Summary: dean ambrose's perfect killstreak gets mucked up by a sniper in skinny jeans.





	put on your soundtrack to disaster

**Author's Note:**

> this is a series, by the way. chapters aren't included on the grounds that i am an inconsistent writer/ updater.

put on your soundtrack to disaster 

 

Dean’s never been one for torture.

It’s really not his style –all the waiting and watching as your victim writhes in pain and begs for their lives or at least for the pain to end swiftly- and he’s not really all that patient. He’s not bloodthirtsty. He’s not a psychopath, though his career choice might have you think otherwise.

He knew how to get information though, and that’s all that mattered.

Dean is good at his job.

So good that he’s pretty much the only guy his _Donna_ trusts to get the assignments done quickly and efficiently. None of his targets ever survive longer than a day after he finds out about them.

This guy’s no different.

The guy had been an informant, paid off by Dean’s boss for the intel that had been keeping the organization in the know for the past six months. It wasn’t long enough for her trust to have been completely in the informant not to sell her out, but it was definitely long enough for her to be livid when she’d found out that he’d been funneling secrets to their competitors.

That’s where Dean came in.

When he’d first knocked on the door of the shitty rathole apartment the informant lived in, he’d listened carefully for the shuffle of feet on the carpet, waited until he heard them come close enough to the door where he was waiting before he’d kicked the whole damn thing in with his boots.

That had startled the guy something fierce, and if Dean wasn’t _such_ a professional, he might’ve laughed at the guy, knocked flat on his ass and backpedaling to get away from him. Instead, he takes one huge step inside the apartment, fists the front of the guy’s shirt and hauls him up.

“You’ve fucked up,” he growls at the man.

“Please!” begs the guy, and mentally Dean begins his response checklist. _That's forty-one_. “I can explain!”

 _Fifteen_.

“I’m not the one you should be talking to, shitstain,” he drawls. He’s never been one for talk anyway. That was Graves’ area of expertise.

“Just let me explain!” repeats the guy. Dean glances around the apartment. From the looks of it –there’s a half-packed suitcase by the coffee table, clothes strewn about inside and out, and things look like they’ve been torn down from shelves and cabinets and stuffed into bags- the guy had been in the middle of making his escape, knowing full well what was waiting for him if he stayed where he was.

“I swear I have good reasons. If you just let me talk to your boss-“

 _Six_.

“The _Donna’s_ done talking. And anyway, it looks like you’ve done quite a bit of talking, huh? Rattin’ us out an’ all,” says Dean conversationally. He can at least scare the guy shitless before he does him in.

“I’m curious: who’d you sell us out to, eh? The Bluebloods? The police?”

Before the guy can open his mouth, Dean cuts him off. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”

He shoves the guy to the ground and reaches for his gun. “Hope whoever it was paid you damn good.”

There’s hardly any fanfare. There’s no ‘the boss sends her regards’ or ‘send my love to hell’ or anything like they do in the movies. Dean ends it quick and simple, clicks the release on the safety, and-

The guy’s head slams to the side with the impact of the bullet.

At first, Dean wonders if his finger had slipped. He hadn’t felt the obvious recoil of the gun firing, and there was no resounding shot echoing through the air.

Then he realizes: it wasn’t his bullet.

Looking up, he sees the tiny hole in the window pane, just parallel to where the informant’s head had been, and he immediately sees red.

A fucking sniper.

In the distance, he can see the vague shape of a dark figure moving on top of the building across the street. They’re on the move.

“Shit,” he growls, and then he’s bolting.

If he’s quick, he can probably catch the bastard before he gets away.

Dean sprints out of the apartment and across the street, keeping his eyes on the building in front of him for any sign of the sniper in the windows. It’s another apartment, equally as shitty as the one Dean had just been in, and if he listens closely, he can hear the sound of feet clanging against the metal of the fire escape.

He guns it around to the side of the building where the fire escape leads into a dark alley, perfect for disappearing into the night, and catches sight of a figure vaulting over the landing of the last flight of steps and landing hard on the concrete below. He can see the oblong silhouette of a sniper rifle on the guy’s person and knows for damn certain that it’s not one of his boss’s guys.

Not like she would send anybody but Dean to get the job done, so he doesn’t hesitate to shoot at whoever the intruder is. The sniper doesn’t stop, even when one of Dean’s bullets slams into the brick wall inches away from him. Instead, recklessly, he fires off his own shot without even bothering to look at where he’s aiming, just hoping to catch Dean with at least one bullet.

Dean ducks behind a rusted dumpster until he hears the gunfire stop and thanks god that the neighborhood he’d found himself in was in a shitty part of town where hearing gunshots in the night was a regular thing. Otherwise, he’d been in a load of trouble if someone called the cops.

When the coast is clear, Dean resumes the chase, sees the sniper round the corner and is immediately on edge. On the other side of the building is a street that’s momentarily empty and haphazardly lit with broken streetlamps; not much space for the sniper to hide in.

Dean knows this trick.

 He rolls around the corner of the building, ducking instinctively –and not a moment too soon- as the butt of the sniper rifle comes whizzing overhead, intended to catch him right in the temple if he hadn’t dodged. Riding the momentum of his roll, Dean hurls himself into the guy, driving his shoulder into the sniper’s gut and knocking him to the ground. Straddling his hips, the sniper has nowhere to go, which, in theory, should have made Dean’s aim impeccable. But the moment Dean gets a shot off, the guy throws his head to the opposite side and the bullet lodges itself in the concrete next to him. From there, the sniper has all the opening he needs, bringing his left arm up in an arc to bat the gun away and using the other arm to deliver a vicious strike to Dean’s jaw with the palm of his heel.

The sudden strike is enough to send Dean reeling slightly, and enough to give the sniper enough leverage to push him all the way off. The sniper rolls to his feet, reclaiming his abandoned rifle from the ground in one smooth motion, and turns in time to meet Dean and the gun in his hand.

Dean is…understandably pissed.

For a moment, neither of them do anything. They stare each other down, trying to catch their breaths, guns trained on each other.

“You fucking bastard,” growls Dean once he can breathe again. “You stole my kill.”

The sniper laughs, eyes sparkling behind the curtain of dark hair that had come loose from the struggling knot tied at the nape of his neck. “ _’Stole’_? What is this, kindergarten?”

Dean ignores the quip. “Whose guy are you? What, don’t tell me you’re the one that son of a bitch informant sold us out to.”

The sniper smiles. “And if I was?” he licks his lips, still eying Dean from the scope of his rifle. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Dean snarls. “I’m gonna kill you. Nobody takes what’s mine.”

“Oh come on. You know that’s bullshit, even in this business. It’s every man for himself,” says the sniper. “It’s just a paycheck.”

And maybe it was just a paycheck, but Dean had a perfect killstreak –it was partly why he was such a feared hitman. He always hit his target, never missed, never faltered. It was more a personal annoyance that someone had gotten in the way of that rather than a professional one. His Donna wouldn’t care that he hadn’t been the one to kill the informant. From the looks of the scene, he could’ve just told her that he’d been the one to shoot him.

But there was no way he could lie to himself like that. It would be in his head forever that some punk with a sniper rifle had ruined his perfect streak. He hated snipers. He thought it was a bullshit, cowardly way to get the job done. He preferred to be up close and personal, made it all the more satisfying when he shot them dead; then people knew you were serious.

The sniper is talking again. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re probably one of the Queen’s guys,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better.”

Dean doesn’t let his expressions betray him. “You don’t.”

“And you’re probably the right hand man of the _Donna_ , aren’t you?” the sniper chirps. “Ambrose, wasn’t it? Her Majesty’s top guy.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. Part of him wonders why he hasn’t shot this guy yet, and is screaming at him to stop chatting and pull the fucking trigger, and the other half is sifting through his memory, trying to come up with a name for the man standing in front of him. It wasn’t like Dean Ambrose wasn’t an already well-known name in the underground circuits. You didn’t get as good as Dean and stay a secret for very long. Tons of people knew him, or had at least heard of him.

But there were a few other names that floated around in the forms of hushed whispers from the underlings, spoken like a curse in the night, as though speaking their names might invoke their wrath. Judging by the way Dean had seen this guy move, he was a professional. He was built like a gymnast, moved like a martial artist. He was a top shelf killer, a damn good one at that.

“You’re probably one of the Blueblood’s guys,” says Dean. “I’ve heard of you. Rollins. Most of the lackeys don’t think you’re real.” Dean fakes a bow at the waist. “What an honor to come face to face with the Silver Shadow of legend. How come they call you that? Why not the Yellow Terror or something for that stupid blonde patch in your head?”

At that, the guy laughs. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“May as well,” says Dean. “Be an interesting choice of last words.”

Rollins nods. “Could be. But I’ll have to tell you the story another time. I’m not supposed to kill you; just the informant. Y’know, damage control. Boss man doesn’t want a gang war on his hands just yet, so I guess I’ll let you live till the next time I see you.”

“But there will be a gang war. I imagine Helmsley and his little prince are gonna see to that,” says Dean.

“Wouldn’t be fun if there wasn’t,” chirps Rollins.

Then he bolts, running right into the street just as a car passes by and disappears after the honking horn of the irate driver.

Dean is honestly so surprised at how bold the guy is that he finds himself only able to look into the darkness after him. He’d only narrowly missed getting hit by the car, having bolted out in front of it and making it to safety by a hair and the grace of a guardian angel.

Of course he’d pulled the risky stunt on purpose.

Dean had to begrudgingly give him credit where it was due: there was no way in hell Dean was going to risk getting hit by a car just to chase after the sniper, and he’d known that.

He’d been outsmarted.

Dean glares at the dark alley on the other side of the street, empty and quiet, Rollins probably already long gone –the bastard was quick enough on his feet anyway. He sighs.

He needs a fucking drink.


End file.
